


Alias Jones and Smith

by kassidy



Category: Alias Smith and Jones
Genre: Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Bandits & Outlaws, Dark, Dehydration, Desert, Episode Related, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Kidnapping, M/M, OTP Feels, Sunburn, Torture, Western, Wild West, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, bad teeth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-20 19:54:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4800239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kassidy/pseuds/kassidy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The past catches up.<br/>For my lovely, patient no_one_in_particular, who always gives me whatever break I need, however I need it and doesn't act disappointed with me. Er - happy belated National Cream-Filled Donut Day?<br/>So I'm late with this story, just had a few detours with it, plus I was somewhat intimidated by writing in the Old West time period. Hopefully I did okay.<br/>Her prompt was very simple, and possibly blood-thirsty - it's how we roll! It's this:<br/>TortureTortureTortureTortureTortureTortureTortureTortureTortureTortureTortureTortureTortureTortureTortureTorture<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [no_one_in_particular](https://archiveofourown.org/users/no_one_in_particular/gifts).



 

  


 

Heyes got broody over certain things. Curry had seen it a hundred times. His partner's quick-thinking brain, which often got them out of tricky situations, also had the unfortunate tendency to twist things into shapes they were never meant to take.

And the two of them sleeping together was one of those certain things.

Yep, he knew just how Hannibal figured it—Curry trusted his judgment, and in repayment he'd corrupted the Kid into committing unnatural acts.

Curry snorted air out of his nose. The horse beneath him plodded on, unmindful. Heyes' horse was just ahead, and in front of Heyes the hay-colored hills stretched on, studded with clumps of dry grasses and stunted trees.

Curry grinned at Heyes' retreating back, swaying as his horse picked out a trail in between the rocks. Nothing about what they'd done last night or the night before—or the week before, the first time—ever felt the least bit _unnatural._ New, but not unnatural. And sure, he wasn't stupid, knew the rest of the world disagreed, and maybe in the past he'd have agreed with them. But the rest of the world offered no comfort. Heyes did. Always had, one way or another. Curry trusted that above all else.

Leather creaked as Heyes turned in his saddle, catching the grin on Curry's face. His eyebrows rose. "What's so funny?"

"Now how did you do that?" Curry asked.

Heyes shrugged, face gleaming with sweat—the day was blistering hot. He wore his dark blue shirt, sleeves rolled back. "Do what? Turn around and catch you grinning at me? I must have felt the heat of it on my back."

Curry gave him an exasperated look. "All I had to do was _think_ about you and me, and there you go, turning right around as if I spoke to you."

"What were you thinking?" Heyes asked, not so casually.

"Heyes, you worry too much. Wasn't anything bad." He paused, considering. "Though I suppose that depends on who you ask. There's a few ladies I could think of—or preachers, maybe—they might not think on it kindly."

Heyes' horse stumbled, and he turned away from Curry to pat it on the neck. Dust from the horse's hide rose in a puff.

_Avoiding me_. "What I was thinking about was kind of…good. Real good in fact."

Heyes turned his upper body around, hand on his horse's rump behind the saddle, and rolled his eyes.

Inwardly, Curry laughed. Kind of fun needling Heyes with things they'd done after dark.

"Well if you're gonna moon over you and me, guess it might as well be," Heyes said, short and disgruntled.

"Be what?"

Heyes frowned.

"Oh, yeah. Good. Of course. Well, I'm not mooning, Heyes. Just thinking, that's all."

"Mooning." This time Heyes didn't look back.

"You think I'd moon over you?" Kid scoffed.

"Well, I don't like to blow my own horn, so to speak—"

"Ha!"

"—but I can't imagine you'd be the first."

There it was—that sly glimmer Kid had waited for. "Oh, you couldn't, could you?" Curry suppressed a smile and shrugged. "I was just thinking, not mooning. You know, how your toes curl when you—"

"Kid!" Heyes shot up fast and straight in his saddle.

"—wake up and stretch first thing in the morning." Kid laughed. Nothing was going to ruin his good humor today, not even Heyes' misguided sense of guilt.

"Howdy," a genial voice called from behind them. "Almost too hot to be on the trail today, ain't it?"

Heyes gave Curry a furtive glance that plainly said _I hope nobody else heard that_ , then both of them looked at the stranger approaching. A short, wiry fellow dressed in dark clothes had draped himself lazily over a chestnut horse. Curry exchanged another quick glance with Heyes. Neither of them recognized the man.

Kid fought to keep his hand off the butt of his gun as the stranger drew closer. Old habits, but more necessary than ever.

"I'm headed to Grand Junction." The man was younger than Curry had first thought, around twenty or thereabouts. He drew closer. "The name's Jeremiah." He stopped a few feet away and wiped his brow, then leaned toward them, squinting. "You two look familiar. Have you ever visited Matherville?"

"Well now, who might be asking?" Curry asked.

Jeremiah raised a hand in protest. "My dad owns the dry goods store there. I was sure I'd seen you pass through is all, but I guess I'm mistaken. Sorry. I didn't mean to rile you."

Heyes gave a smile meant to disarm strangers. "What makes you think we're riled?"

Jeremiah nodded and relaxed his hold on the reins so that his horse moved forward next to Heyes. "Okay, good. So let's see if I remember rightly. You're…Smith and Jones. Right?" The corners of his mouth curled, encouraging agreement. "Easy enough names to remember."

Heyes cocked his head, watching Jeremiah. "Why remember 'em at all?"

"Which of you is which?" Jeremiah said.

Heyes' smile disappeared, and Jeremiah's grew wider. Curry curled fingers around his gun, but he didn't draw. Heyes was between him and Jeremiah. Why the hell didn't he move out of the way?

"I'm Jones." Heyes said it fast. "Why are you asking?"

Curry opened his mouth, but Heyes gave a bare shake of his head and pointedly looked down. Jeremiah had a Colt pressed into Heyes' right side.

"Hold on a minute," Heyes said. "I thought we were going to pass a few companionable hours together on the trail."

"I'm Jeremiah Bilson." The young man grinned, wide and glad, and suddenly the Jeremiah who'd resembled Danny Bilson not one wit looked a lot more like him. He jerked the gun up, leaned in close to Heyes and pointed it over Heyes' shoulder at Curry. "Nope, you're gonna get rid of that gun. Easy like, before I accidentally shoot your partner."

Curry did so, reluctantly tossing his gun to the ground.

"That's better. Don't you move, I got my eye on you. Come on out, Harry!"

Heyes rocked back, startled by the shout in his ear.

"Harry!" Jeremiah called again. He jabbed Heyes in the side. Heyes stifled a small noise.

Curry jerked toward Jeremiah before he could stop himself, felt the rage heat his face even more. Jeremiah smiled slowly, raised the gun and wagged it at him. "You two are close, huh? " He dropped the gun and dug it deliberately into Heyes' ribs again. This time he got no reaction from either of them.

Over a rise to the left came another rider, dirty and muscled, so large his legs dangled awkwardly past the horse's belly. His red shirt blazed against the blue backdrop of sky. Heyes shot Curry a grin at the fellow's size.

Curry didn't respond. He felt sick to his stomach. Heyes was trying to take the blame for killing Bilson, _and_ he had the nerve to try and distract him from the fact they were gonna have to fight a damn giant.

Jeremiah cast Heyes a smiling look. "He's pretty darned big. It stops being so funny when he throws a punch. We got drunk once, had an argument and I couldn't sit right on my horse for days after. Everything kept spinnin'."

"These the right fellas?" Harry called, riding closer. He approached Curry and reached into a saddlebag, pulling out a length of rope.

"Sure are." Jeremiah looked at Curry, then Heyes. "I've never lived in Matherville, but I went there to see my brother after I got a letter saying he'd got rich and bought hisself a saloon. By the time I got there he was dead. The law refused to give me a single penny. Said I was too late, no relatives had been found—you ever hear of such a crooked system? Which leaves me with only one thing. Revenge. You murdered my brother, Thaddeus Jones. You're going to regret that."

"Hands behind your back. Slow now," Harry said to Curry. His voice rumbled deep in his chest.

"Who told you we had anything to do with—what did you say your brother's name was?" Heyes argued.

Jeremiah's mouth thinned. "I asked around. Ain't hard. People love to talk. They spelled it out plain. Thaddeus Jones killed Danny."

"People love to gossip. Nine parts exaggeration and misinformation, one part truth. You're going to kill me because of gossip?"

"That I am. For months I tried to find you, but there's a lot of people go by the likes of Smith and Jones. I'd pretty much given up on you, but then I got lucky. Found some people who'd played poker with you, last town back."

"I'm Thaddeus, not him." Curry leaned forward, intent. He ignored the urgent look Heyes gave him.

"That true?" Jeremiah asked, low in Heyes' ear.

"No, sir. It is not," Heyes said, making eye contact with Jeremiah. "Joshua's been my friend for longer than I remember. He's always been protective of me, but in good conscience I can't allow him to take the blame this time."

"You can't do this," Curry said to Heyes. Sweat poured off him. He felt like the ground was dropping from beneath the horse's feet.

Heyes met his eyes steadily. "I'm not doing anything but telling the truth." He looked at Jeremiah. "He's a good friend, but as you can see, a bad liar."

"Didn't you even get a description of who done the deed?" Kid erupted. "It was me! I did it!"

"It won't likely matter," Harry pointed out. He scratched his belly beneath the fiery shirt. "It ain't like we can leave either of you alive."

"We could if they didn't know our names." Jeremiah smiled again. His smile brought back all sorts of memories from the goldmine that were, in retrospect, more like nightmares. "Like I said, I'm Danny's brother. This here's Harrison Pardue, Jr."

Harry's brows lowered. His shirt beneath his underarms bore huge sweat stains. "Keep it up and I'll reacquaint you with my fist again."

"Just making certain we're on the same page, Harry," Jeremiah said, but his eyes had opened wide, like a scared kid.

"I already agreed, Jeremiah. Now shut up and follow me."

"So you know where we're going, right?"

"I'm the one found the place. Quit bothering me and let's get going."

"He's hung over." Jeremiah grinned. "Ain't a bigger drunk in the territory."

"You're making a terrible mistake. They'll hang you and your brother's killer will still be out there somewhere in the world. Is that what you want?" Heyes said, heat in his eyes.

Jeremiah raised the gun and hit Heyes, raking the butt of the Colt across his forehead.

Heyes head whipped back with the force of the blow. A jagged split in the skin opened up nearly the width of his forehead. Blood ran down his face.

"He—Smith!" Curry yelled, nearly uttering Heyes' real name.

"Who's Hey Smith? You trying to convince me his name's Smith? Because it don't seem like you know his name at all," Jeremiah said.

"You're not too bright, are you?" Curry snapped, would have said more but Pardue sank a fist into his stomach and interrupted him. The air went out of Curry's lungs and he saw bright sparkles in his vision.

"Settle down, Josh," Heyes said.

"Don't call me Josh, Joshua," Curry returned, once he'd ascertained Heyes was upright and essentially unhurt.

"I'd like to wipe my forehead if you don't mind," Heyes said to Jeremiah. When Jeremiah nodded he reached up and wiped his forehead with the crook of his arm. In one smooth move, he lowered and straightened his forearm out, striking the gun Jeremiah had stuck into his side.

"Goddammit," Jeremiah cursed. The gun pointed at the ground, but he'd managed to hold onto it.

Curry was ready, but since his hands were literally tied behind his back, all he could manage was a kick. His boot hit Pardue low on the hip, spooking his horse into running off a few paces.

Heyes grabbed the barrel of the gun, but Jeremiah wrested it away. The Colt went off, sound cracking through the clear air.

The bullet hit Curry. At first he didn't know where it hit—his inner arm or his chest.

"No!"

Curry heard the sharp panic in Heyes' voice. The force of the bullet felt like someone very strong had suddenly pushed Curry backward. He reeled, very near fell off his horse. He wanted to reassure Heyes he was all right but then the pain came, a red tide.

After that it went dark.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

"Joshua, wake up. Say something!"

His arm and chest hurt. Curry blinked, the red glow behind closed eyelids fluttering, gone. Then Heyes was there in front of him, astride his horse and leaning forward. Heyes' brow was creased with worry, his face wet with sweat. Both hands were behind his back, presumably tied. His gun holster was empty.

Pardue, Jeremiah and Heyes all towered above Curry. But then they weren't lying on the ground. He was.

Jeremiah sighed impatiently beside Heyes and gestured with his gun. "Get him up, Pardue. We got miles to go yet."

"Where've you been hit, can you tell?"

"Shut up, Jones." Pardue swung off his horse and walked over to the Kid.

Curry noticed the gun Jeremiah had made him toss was now tucked into Pardue's pants. The man's boots were filthy, darkened with stains of who-knew-what and crusted with dirt.

Pardue squatted beside him, and Curry wrinkled his nose. He preferred the pain in his arm and side to the smell of the man—he reeked of old sweat, dirt and booze. Pardue grabbed his arm above the elbow and pulled. Curry lay on his hands, still tied behind his back, so his arm couldn't move much but it was enough to see the damage. Fresh pain swamped him. He looked down. His shirt was shredded at his inner arm, just below the bicep, and on his side at chest level. Blood soaked his skin and shirt, but he'd definitely seen worse and bled more.

Pardue tugging at his arm hurt like a son-of-a-gun, sent pain radiating out over his arm and side. But it was an acceptable level of hurt, considering Curry had been shot.

Pardue whistled and then laughed, in high spirits. God, his teeth were terrible. Only three whole ones left in the front, the rest in various states of jagged black and brown decay.

"You're a lucky man, Smith. The bullet went clean between your arm and your side." Pardue leaned closer. "Don't look like you'll bleed to death."

"Oh, I feel lucky all right." Curry turned his nose away from the noxious smell and gave Heyes a reassuring nod. It made his head hurt. There was a swollen bump on back of it. "And my name _is_ Thaddeus Jones. He's lying to you."

"Give it up," Jeremiah scoffed.

Curry rolled his eyes, but he _had_ been lucky. His arm hadn't been tight to his side when the bullet hit or the wounds would have been much worse. He struggled to sit up. "Last I remember I was still upright on my horse."

Jeremiah chuckled. Unlike his partner, Bilson's teeth were whole and his black clothes looked clean in spite of the dust and the heat. "You righted yourself, then took a dive off the other side. Right graceful until your head hit the dirt."

Curry threw him a withering look and rocked on his butt, finally managing to sit up. Then there was agony in his side and arm. He groaned and pitched forward face first into a patch of dead weeds.

"You no account son-of-a-bitch!" Heyes yelled.

Pardue had kicked him from behind. "Might be just a flesh wound, but it does hurt like hell, don't it?" There was something malevolent there, a gladness in his voice that made the Kid's blood run cold.

"Save the fun until we get to the barn," Jeremiah ordered.

Pardue straightened, looked Jeremiah in the eyes.

It was a challenge, won almost before it started. Jeremiah looked away immediately.

Pardue nodded, satisfied. "Having a little fun is all."

 _The barn?_ Curry blinked up at the sky, so bright it made his eyes water. He tried sitting up again. Pardue grabbed him beneath both arms and hauled him up the rest of the way, purposely rotating his knuckles into the wound. The pain flared, immense and throbbing. Curry gritted his teeth and kept the misery of it off his face.

Seeing no sign he'd inflicted hurt seemed to disappoint Pardue. He all but threw Curry on the horse, as if he weighed nothing.

Heyes watched, expressionless. Leave it to him to catch on quick to the fact that Pardue liked inflicting pain. And Bilson had already noticed Heyes' strong reaction to the Kid getting hurt. Curry figured he'd he'd use it someway if he could. Heyes had probably realized that, too.

They rode off single file, Curry then Pardue, Heyes followed by Jeremiah. The trail rose and fell, hills and valleys. Curry was thirsty, and the heat and blood loss made him both nauseous and sleepy. He swayed in the saddle.

"Wake up, Josh." Heyes looked at him, dark eyes alert, worried.

Curry nodded, trying to straighten in his saddle.

They left the trail and struck out north, the sun straight overhead, the air so hot it was hard to breathe it in. Pardue kept the lead, Curry by his side. The land wasn't as rocky, showing an occasional green patch.

Curry spotted the gray barn sagging on the side of a hill as they rode out of a valley. It was obviously deserted, falling apart. A rutted path overlaid with long dried grass stretched out from one side of the barn and curved away from them.

As they drew closer, Curry saw the scorched, blackened remains of a home. More importantly, there was a well in front. Fresh water.

Jeremiah swung open the barn doors and urged their captives' horses in first. Sunlight shone in patches through the holes in the roof. There were three stalls and a hayloft overhead, probably more than enough for whoever had settled this far off the beaten path.

Pardue dismounted and got Curry off his horse, pushed him to a support and had him sit in the dusty hay. He lashed Curry's arms behind him. Jeremiah repeated the same with Heyes at the next support, only he kept Heyes standing. Afterward he dragged two crates from a stack by the stalls, then pulled a wooden bench out from the wall into the middle of the barn, creating a makeshift table and chairs. He led three of the horses into the stalls, leaving his own in the open by the others, lightly tethered.

Pardue grabbed a bucket tipped over in the hay and went out again, bringing it back with water from the well. He and Jeremiah filled their canteens and watered the horses, then drank deeply.

"Ah, that's good." Jeremiah wiped his lips with the back of his hand and looked at Pardue. "I bet these boys are thirsty, too."

Pardue nodded seriously. "Bound to be." He turned to Heyes. "Are you thirsty?"

"Of course I am," Heyes said calmly.

"Are you going to leave him standing like that?" Curry looked down. He was bleeding again. All the movement from getting him tied had opened the wounds again.

Pardue's upper lip curled from his blackened teeth. The red shirt was a blaze of color within the drab interior of the barn. "Want to stand with him?"

"No, he doesn't," Heyes said. "It's fine, Josh."

"Stop calling me that," Curry said, irritated. His throat was scratchy and hot and he wanted nothing more than a drink of water.

"You don't give up easy, I'll give you that." Jeremiah shook his head. "You want water?" He took another pull and licked his lips. "Nothing like cold, fresh well water." He held the canteen out to Curry in invitation, then walked over to him. "Here you go." He tipped the canteen over Curry's mouth and poured. "Good, ain't it?"

The water was wonderful, clear and cold in Curry's dry mouth and hot throat, every bit as delicious as Jeremiah had made it sound and more. "Now him," he said, nodding at Heyes.

"Sure, sure." Jeremiah stepped next to Heyes and held up the canteen, tipped it.

Heyes lifted his chin, waiting. His eyes never left Jeremiah's.

"Wait, now." Jeremiah clucked his tongue. Slowly he brought the canteen down by his side again, tapping it with restless fingers. "I guess I wasn't thinking. Elsewise why would I give the man who murdered my brother so much as a single, solitary sip of water?"

Heyes lowered his chin and looked away. He swallowed, the dry click audible. "I guess you wouldn't."

"That's right." Jeremiah nodded.

Pardue laughed.

"What kind of game are you playing?" Curry demanded. His body flushed hot, ashamed that he'd enjoyed the water Heyes had been denied. He'd been blind to everything but the dust on his tongue and the heat in his pores.

Jeremiah placed the canteen on the bench-table, smiling. He was small where Danny had been tall, wiry while Danny had been lanky. Only his eyes were the same shade of blue. His features were more refined, his face thinner. He didn't look much like his brother until that wide grin summoned the ghost of Danny Bilson into the room. It was eerie. "Well, I'll tell you. The game goes like this, Smith. You get to die easy. You might not think that sounds lucky, but it is. You stood by and did nothing while my brother was killed, but you didn't hurt him none, either. So I figure you can do the same here. Stand by while we watch Harry in action with your friend. Because believe me when I tell you—that's not how you want to go."

Curry turned stricken eyes to Heyes before he could stop himself.

Heyes did his best to appear stoic and unconcerned. He pretty much succeeded, except his face went pale.

Curry's stomach rolled. "Get it through your thick head you'll be killing the wrong man!" He yanked furiously against the restraints. The wooden beam behind him creaked.

Heyes cast him a sorrowful look and turned to Jeremiah. "He's just upset, you understand. We've been friends since we were kids."

Jeremiah ignored him and spoke to Curry. "I don't understand why you're so all-fired ready to give yourself up for your friend. After all, I'm trying real hard to be fair now. Don’t I try real hard, Harry?"

"You try real hard to talk too much," Pardue said dryly.

"That's what my pa always said about Danny." Jeremiah either missed or ignored Pardue's impatience. He looked at Curry, then Heyes and back at Curry, studying them. A grin crept over his mouth. "You boys wouldn't be bunkies, would you?"

"So what if we were?" Curry asked, bewildered.

"Not that kind of bunkie. I mean…the other kind. You know."

Curry glared at Bilson, giving the restraints another vicious tug.

Heyes looked away, even paler than before.

Pardue grimaced. "Shut up about that. When are we gonna get down to business?"

Jeremiah was still grinning. "Patience, Harry. I got some questions I want answered first." He sat down on a crate and looked at Heyes. The air in the barn was a little cooler than outside, but unmoving. It smelled of dusty old hay, overheated horses and their own sweat. In particular, Pardue's terrific body odor became more noticeable by the moment. "You. Jones. Folks in Matherville said you were intending on coming after Danny in the night like a yellow belly, and that he decided to come at you first."

"That's not how it happened," Heyes said, eyes still trained somewhere off in the distance. "We dug a gold mine with him and an old fella named Seth, did you know about that?" His gaze settled on Jeremiah now. "In the Sangre de Cristo Mountains."

"No," Jeremiah said. "Why don't you tell me."

"We played cards one night with Danny and Seth. Seth liked us." Heyes looked at Curry. "He thought that playing poker with us gave him a good idea as to our character, remember?"

Curry nodded. His side and arm throbbed painfully, but he schooled his expression not to give him away.

"Get on with it," Pardue said, all but growling at them.

'He asked us to join him at his mine. Said we could get rich if we'd help him dig the gold. Danny didn't take the offer seriously, but when me and Josh did, he changed his mind."

"Wish we never had," Curry said, somber.

Heyes nodded at him. He sighed and tilted his head so that the back rested on the post behind him.

Pardue moved fast, striding toward Heyes. "I told you to get on with it." His huge hand spread out over Heyes' forehead and squeezed and shoved, dirty fingers digging into the wound. "Bet I could squeeze your brains out just like this." Pardue's tone was low and intimate.

Heyes' forehead oozed fresh blood. His mouth opened, a gasp or attempt to shout, Curry didn't know. Only that he didn't make a sound.

"Your brother killed Seth!" Curry shouted. "He took the gold, the horses, our food and water—everything! He left us all to die. You want to call someone a yellow belly, Jeremiah? That's exactly what your brother was!"

Pardue let go of Heyes reluctantly, stepping back to look at Jeremiah.

Jeremiah's jaw tightened and twitched. "You expect me to believe that? How'd you survive, then? Hike across the desert without food or water?" he scoffed.

"That's exactly what we did," Heyes said, soft and exhausted.

"That's exactly what you didn't. Nobody can survive that. You're both lying. And your friend Smith's got a big mouth on him."

"Too damn big. I can do something about that for you iff'n you want," Pardue offered.

Jeremiah pointed a finger at him, nodding. "I'm thinking you can teach him a lesson, sure. Since he seems so all-fire concerned about the brother-killer here, how about this—every time Smith opens his mouth and smarts off— _Jones_ gets it."

Curry looked from one to the other, horrified. He opened his mouth, couldn't think what to say to stop them.

Pardue cackled, pleased. "Now that's why I run with you."

"That and the fact that I was your alibi back in Lincoln County when they tried to charge you with murdering a whore." Jeremiah laughed.

"That don't hurt none." Pardue joined in, laughing loudly. One of the horses snorted as if disliking the noise. "What's the matter, Smith?"

"Think he's going to cry?" Jeremiah giggled.

"Not yet, but I bet he will before long."

"Nothing you do here changes the truth," Heyes said. "Your brother killed a kind and generous old man as sure as if he'd shot him. Only shooting would have been a mercy compared to the way he died."

"I'll teach you a thing or two about mercy and the lack of it." Pardue balled up a hammy fist, reared back and threw a roundhouse at Heyes' jaw.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

If Heyes hadn't managed to halfway evade the blow, he might've had a broken jaw, but Pardue's fist only clipped his chin. The back of his head still cracked into the post behind him. His ears rang.

He saw Curry open his mouth, face wilder than the bobcat the Kid shot once just before it got its claws into Heyes. Curry didn't utter a word, though. Heyes knew Kid was trapped but good—he didn't dare say anything for fear of Heyes getting hurt.

Jeremiah wiped his eyes and straightened his vest. "You two are holier-than-thou, aren't you? Pretty odd considering how you lie. I think I got just the thing for you, Jones. Can I call you Thaddeus?"

Heyes' head was still spinning. He blinked groggily, blood trickling down his chin. "I'm not lying."

It was enough for Jeremiah. "Well, Thaddeus, I figured out a way for you to prove that to us. Since you're so good at outlasting the desert heat, we're going to stake you out in it. Maybe we'll even let you go if you survive it." He nodded sagely. "I told you I was a fair man, didn't I?" He beamed at Heyes.

Curry balled his hands behind his back. After a minute he said softly, "He's dehydrated. Will you give him some water?"

Jeremiah tilted his head. "Did he have any water out in the desert?"

Curry nodded. "We had a jug we were able to fill at the start."

"I see." Jeremiah exchanged a humorous look with Pardue and then nodded, mock-serious. "But if it happened like you say, it took days to get across the desert."

"After Seth died, we stumbled on a water hole."

"Like a miracle, wasn't it?"

Curry watched Jeremiah. He didn't respond.

Jeremiah's smile vanished. "If it's true, that miracle got my brother killed."

"Because he—" Curry ducked his head.

Heyes heard the Kid's deep intake of breath. Fighting to make sure he sounded calm.

Jeremiah waited, but Curry said nothing else. He turned to Pardue, nodding his head in Heyes' direction. "You want to take him outside, Harry? Truss him up on the hill? No shade for our man, Thaddeus, here. He's a tough guy. Doesn't need it."

Pardue, pulled a knife and began cutting Heyes' ropes.

 _Happy as a kid with presents come Christmas_ , Heyes thought sourly, trying to ignore his own rising panic. His jaw ached, his forehead stung, the back of his head was sore, and to top it all off, his tongue felt thick. He eyed Jeremiah's canteen, still sitting on the bench. Hell, he'd gladly partake of Pardue's canteen and not think twice of it if only they'd give it to him.

Pardue pulled a knife and cut Heye's ropes. Heyes shook his lower arms and hands, getting the circulation going.

Pardue decked him again.

Heyes spun, landed face-first into hay. He spat into it, coughed and spat again. Blinked down at it.

The hay, like the ramshackle barn, had been here a long time—dusty, dried up until it was near weightless. More dingy gray than yellow.

 _Except for the blood_ , an inner voice helpfully supplied. Both his forehead and his mouth dripped blood into the hay.

He breathed in dust and sneezed. A fine spray of blood landed on the lifeless hay, mostly disappearing into the blood already there. It appeared he'd developed something of an allergy to dust, or hay. Or dusty hay. He gripped the hateful hay in his fingers, squeezing as if he could crush it. Crush something, anything.

No. Best to remain calm. Though if he had to keep looking at the hectic color in Curry's cheeks, the worry in his eyes, calm wasn't going to remain a possibility for long.

As if in echo to his feelings, one of the horses kicked their stall. Old wood cracked. The other horses moved restlessly. Heyes heard the shuffling sound.

 _Just don't let them kill Kid_ , Heyes prayed, uncertain if he prayed to God or just that same faceless, all-powerful, indifferent blue sky he'd shouted thanks up to in the desert.

He remembered Curry running straight into that miracle water hole, while he himself had lapped at the water like a dog. Lying there afterward and laughing like lunatics.

A booted foot landed at the back of his neck, slid over his hair and pushed. It smelled powerfully bad. His nose and face pressed into the hay. He was almost thankful.

"Tie him up, Pardue."

"I'm just getting started," Pardue said.

"There's plenty of time for that, Harry. I promise, okay?" Jeremiah's wheedling voice, afraid to set Pardue off. A pause, then: "And Harry?"

"What!" grumbled Pardue.

"Take his clothes off."

Pardue chuckled. Heyes whispered _no_ into the hay.

He heard another whispering sound. Was that Curry? Was he praying, too? Then a creak of wood. He guessed Curry had got tired of praying and was instead banging his head into the post to make himself keep silent.

Heyes' hair was grasped at the crown, yanked hard enough it felt near to tearing his scalp. He scrambled in the hay, helped push himself up to take the pressure off. He panted through his mouth. _Swelled up three sizes up now_ , he decided of his tongue. His mouth held the zing of copper. Blood tasted awful, and the thick leather that he was calling his tongue made it so much worse.

"He'll burn up under that sun," Curry said, the strain of keeping calm telling on him. Heyes heard his voice wobble.

Jeremiah pretended to think. "Maybe not. It's getting later."

Curry looked up at the tattered roof, the sun still shining strong through the holes, beaming rays of light to the thin, trampled hay. "There's still plenty of hours daylight left, and he's already dehydrated."

Jeremiah shrugged. His hair was sweaty, his clothes beginning to look rumpled. He brushed a bit of hay off his pants.

"This better not be all you brought me out here for." Pardue had Heyes upright. "Your'e not utilizin' my talents."

"It's irony, Harry. Don't you see it?" Jeremiah's face fell when Pardue only looked at him stonily. He shrugged. "So take him outside and do whatever you want."

"No," Heyes said against the putrid, sweaty smell of Pardue's red shirt. He didn't know what was wrong with him. He was light-headed and tired, his brain in a fog. He couldn't begin to formulate a plan to get them out of this.

"C'mon then," Pardue said, gripping Heyes' upper arm. "Boots off first."

Heyes leaned forward, ignoring as best he could the smell and his pains. He almost over-balanced, forgot himself and slapped at Pardue when the man held him up. Pardue only huffed in amusement. Heyes got his boots off.

"Pants, now."

"Don't," Curry said.

Heyes' hand fell to his buckle and fumbled with it.

"Hurry." Pardue shook his arm. "I ain't got all day."

Jeremiah walked to Curry's side. "Don't? Did you say _don't_?"

"Please. I did it, not him."

Jeremiah lifted his boot and kicked Curry's injured side. Curry grunted, leaned away from Jeremiah.

"He only watches. That's what you said," Heyes reminded Jeremiah. It was hard to make the words sound intelligible.

Jeremiah shrugged and moved away from Curry to stand beside Heyes. "That better?"

Heyes was glad to get Jeremiah's attention off Curry, but the man made him nervous standing so close. Heyes turned away slightly, which was as much as he thought he could get away with, and once again began the arduous task of undressing. He threw off the last of his clothes, feeling exposed, fighting the urge to cringe. He tried to cover his genitals.

Jeremiah grasped one arm gently, then the other, nudging them to his sides.

Heyes closed his eyes against Jeremiah's intense, excited gaze.

He shivered. He couldn't be cold. Maybe feverish. No, he needed water is all. The confusion, all of it. He just needed water. So simple.

He opened his eyes. Jeremiah was smiling again, that too-white, not quite even smile, the one that said he was glad to be in the world.

Like Danny had never died.

*

The sun wasn't so bad at first, and Jeremiah had unknowingly done Heyes a favor. Though Pardue kicked him, hit him, and at one point hunkered down at Heyes' ear and told him how the Indians scalped people, and demonstrated by skinning a piece of Heyes' hide from beneath his arm—Heyes was naked, and this made Pardue almost comically uncomfortable.

Though Pardue liked hurting men and women, he liked only his women without clothes when he tortured them. Heyes grasped this within the first hour as he lay spread-eagled and naked on a broiling, mostly dead hill arising from the rugged Colorado landscape.

Before the sun finally began to desert the sky, the white skin normally covered by Heyes' pants began to burn and sting. His penis, his hips, the tender skin at his groin. His balls were heavy, so hot against his thighs.

His thirst was a terrible thing, larger than the burning. He nearly wept when Pardue drank in front of him from his canteen.

Pardue never looked more alive, alert and avaricious, absorbing Heyes' pain.

Heyes turned away and thought of Curry. Laughing. Riding a horse. Playing poker. Naked in their bed.

Bunkie. Yes. If they had to have a label for it. Heyes smiled.

The sun, his enemy, sank below the hills. It grew colder, and the sky far away, sparkling, brimming with stars. Pardue began to untie him from the crude wood stakes.

He had to try twice to make himself understood. "Why are you taking me inside?"

Pardue blinked at him, beetle eyes shining in the near dark. "So you won't escape."

Heyes grinned and then laughed, soundless.

Pardue gingerly reached to free him, looking at him oddly. And then he grinned back.

Heyes closed his eyes, stood on a rocky shore dotted with dead grasses, and looked out over an endless, cold crystal lake. Then he stepped in and drank his fill.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

The barn was shrouded in shadows before Pardue came back inside leading Heyes, shivering and stumbling into the barn.

For a moment Curry's rage was uncontrollable. He wanted more than anything to break out of the ropes holding him back, take those huge hands yanking at the lead and smash them into broken bits. But there was nowhere for the anger to go. Not yet.

Curry kept his eyes on Heyes and tried to find his way through.

The normally pale, unexposed skin below Heyes' belt line had gone deep red from the sun. He saw a puckered patch of raw skin running down Heyes' left side, the skin gleaming but not moist, the way that a wound like that should be. Heyes' eyes wandered over the barn as if he didn't know where he was.

The rage banked itself inside Curry, collapsing into sorrow.

Pardue stomped directly to Jeremiah, dragging Heyes behind like an old rag. "Get Jones dressed," Pardue said.

"Why? Just gonna put him back out there tomorrow."

Curry bit his tongue until it bled. He swore that Danny wasn't the only Bilson brother that would die by his hand.

Pardue loomed over Jeremiah. "Because I'm tired of looking at his naked hide!"

Jeremiah cackled. He took another swig out of the whiskey bottle he'd dug out of his saddlebag earlier and heaved himself off a pile of hay. "He ain't got anything you don't." Jeremiah whistled, stepping back to look Heyes up and down. He grinned at the red, tender skin and spotted the raw spot on Heyes' side. Leaning close, he inspected it. "What's this?"

"Jones wanted to learn how to skin." Pardue smiled.

Curry tucked his chin into his chest and closed his eyes. _You're dead, too, Pardue._

"All right. I'll put his clothes on," Jeremiah said. "Since you're all proddy." He pushed Heyes over to the post next to Curry and fumbled for Heyes' clothes.

The scrape of the clothing over Heyes' burned skin roused him, got him fighting. He kicked Jeremiah in the stomach. Jeremiah stumbled back and merely grinned, mellowed by the alcohol, before he got back to tugging at Heyes' clothes. He gave up after getting his shirt and drawers on, leaving his pants crumpled on the ground by Heyes' boots and belt and empty holster. Heyes' hat stayed where it had been, tossed away with Curry's and left where they had landed.

Then Jeremiah tied Heyes up again, arms behind the post, sitting on the ground.

Pardue dug around in his own saddlebag, pulling out a jug of rot gut. He sat down on one the crates, took a long swig and slammed the bottle down on the table-bench.

None of them smelled good at this point, but the man stank so badly it was unnatural. While he hadn't stayed outside the rest of the day like Heyes had—he'd sat in the shade of a bush some, and came into the barn to rest, and switched out the watch with Jeremiah—Pardue had been out in the heat plenty enough to add new, pungent depths to his body odor.

Heyes sagged forward against the ropes after Jeremiah finally left him alone. The struggle had worn him out even more. He nodded when Curry risked whispering to him, but didn't speak. After awhile his breathing slowed.

He slept, and Curry tried to do the same.

*

Pardue reached for the rot gut as soon as he awakened in the morning. When Jeremiah tried to take it from him, Pardue threatened to hit him over the head with it. He informed Jeremiah he was bored of babysitting a naked, defenseless, so-called murderer.

By noon both Pardue and Jeremiah were drunk.  

Drinking made Jeremiah more generous. He didn't go so far as to share their hardtack, but he did untie Curry and take him outside to let him do his business. Curry thought it'd be hard to piss with a wobbly gun trained on him by a drunk, but he managed.

His side and arm ached miserably. He was chilling, sweating rivulets. The bullet injuries needed cleaning and dressing.

And then Jeremiah drew fresh water from the well and offered it to him. Curry stared at it, long enough that Jeremiah nearly took it away.

He drank the water. His gut was a gnawing, empty ball of hunger, and he was plenty thirsty besides. It didn't matter—he still had to fight to keep it down. Shame made him nauseous. Heyes had no water. But he had to stay strong, get himself and Heyes out of this mess and soon. Before he lost his mind and got himself killed, leaving Heyes at their mercy.

Heyes hadn't had water since yesterday morning. They treated him worse than the lowest animal.

Inside the barn again, Curry looked at Heyes. Dried blood caked his forehead. Breathing too fast. There was only a sheen of sweat on his face, his shirt dry. Heyes' body didn't have sweat to spare.

Jeremiah sat down on one of the crates. Dust specks swam in the light breaking through the ragged barn roof. His face was flushed, his hair disheveled. He gestured at Heyes. "Need to stake him outside again," he said to Pardue. "It's after noon."

Pardue tried to stand up from his crate, swayed and went back down. "This damn seat's too small for me."

"They all are, aren't they? Never seen one you fit in comfortable."

Pardue considered. He scratched his smelly, sweaty underarm. "Yup."

That set them off laughing. Finally Pardue straightened up. "I'll take him out."

"You can do it later, right? You got some drinking to do, after all." Curry pretended to be friendly.

"Take him out now." Jeremiah looked up at Pardue. "That way he won't make it through the night, and tomorrow we can leave this damn barn."

Heyes lifted his head. "What's your hurry, fellas?" He was hoarse, the words labored. "Have another drink... I can—I can wait."

Curry smiled big at him, glad to hear his voice, but Pardue looked spooked. It was if he'd forgotten Heyes could speak.

Jeremiah laughed at him. "He ain't quite yet a ghost. Oh, and don't forget to get his clothes off."

Pardue frowned in disgust. "You want 'em off, you do it." He took another swig from his bottle.

Jeremiah could barely walk. He cut the ropes from Heyes' hands without chopping a finger off, and he got his shirt off without much trouble. He simply cut off his drawers, smiling when Heyes refused to look at him. Leaning in close, Jeremiah grinned wider and wrapped a hand around Heyes' hip.

"Leave him alone!" Curry yelled.

Pardue heaved himself up. He spat on the ground, narrowly missing Jeremiah. "You want me to take him out, get your hands off him." His lip curled in disgust, bad teeth on display. He pulled his gun, and for a moment Jeremiah looked shocked.

"Get up." Pardue gestured with his gun at Heyes. "Outside."

Jeremiah scrambled away. Heyes stood, and Pardue walked him though the barn doors.

*

Time ticked interminably away. Curry's wounds throbbed and stung. He pulled and rolled his wrists, trying to loosen the ropes. Then he tried rubbing them against the sharp edge of the post, but he wasn't making headway.

He dropped his head, trying to think against the fear. One frantic, useless sentence kept getting in his way. _Heyes has been out there for hours._

A thin beam of light sparkled on the rot gut jug sitting on the bench. Pardue stood up slowly from his crate, the wood cracking. "I'm done with this," he announced.

Jeremiah looked at him blearily. "Done with what?"

"I'm getting him. If he ain't dead I'll shoot him so we can get out of here."

Curry shot up straight, heart missing a beat.

"No, you won't, Harry. There's still hours of sunlight yet."

"It's hotter than hell and I'm sick of this place. I'm done."

"Thought you wanted to have some fun with him," Jeremiah protested.

Pardue shot him an incredulous look. "Throwing somebody outside and waiting for him to roast ain't fun."

"He's staying out there, Harry. He killed my brother and this goes my way. Now sit down."

Pardue grabbed the jug and turned it up, draining the last of the rot gut. "The hell he is. You ain't even gone out to check on him. What if somebody finds this place?" Pardue pointed an unsteady finger at Jeremiah. "What if they see him? Who's been doing most of the baby sitting around here? Me." He turned, faced the barn doors.

Jeremiah lurched up off the crate, lost his balance and crashed backward into one of the support posts. He struggled to stay on his feet.

Pardue turned, walked toward Jeremiah. "Just what are you going to do to stop me? Huh?" Still roundly drunk, he pushed Jeremiah and staggered after him, reeling.

Jeremiah landed on the ground beside Curry. He lay there panting, then grabbed at the post and pulled himself up, kicking Curry in the process. Fumbling at his waist, he pulled his Bowie knife from its leather sheaf, blade gleaming.

"You're crazier'n a bag of snakes," Pardue slurred.

As drunk and slow as Pardue was, Jeremiah was drunker. And slower. Or possibly not as used to drinking. Pardue grabbed Jeremiah's wrist, forcing it back until the knife fell. Jeremiah fell with it, making an _oof_ sound as his backside hit the ground again.

Pardue stood over him, eyes gone dark, speculative.

"All right." Jeremiah held palms up to the sky, surrendering.  "Whatever you want. Just don't look at me that way, Harry."

The moment had passed. Pardue walked out of the barn.

Adrenaline gone, Jeremiah began a long, groaning, complaining attempt to get off the ground again. He got as far as his knees and vomited in the hay.

And he left his knife.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Heyes was on fire. He would always be on fire. His scalp burned, his eyes stung and swelled. The sun just kept glaring down, kept burning more bits of him away.

He didn't want to look at his privates, but finally he glanced down. Wasn't as bad as he feared, but bad enough. The skin below his navel was deep, fiery red. And shrunken, someway. No water to plump up his skin, he supposed.

He'd never known thirst till now. His body, his pores screamed for water. His tongue scraped around on the dry insides of his mouth like crinkled paper. He'd have killed for a single cup of water.

Maybe a sip.

Though now he was pretty sure he couldn't kill a fly.

His limbs ached and his guts cramped. He hadn't had cramps in the desert before. He hadn't faded out near as fast as he was going now, but he hadn't been purposely laid out staked and naked in the middle of the heat either.

He didn't want to die this way, under the sun without his clothes, legs spread wide.

If Heyes didn't make it, maybe Curry still would. His partner was a resourceful man, moreso than he gave himself credit.

Heyes didn't pray much—figured if there was a heaven he'd fallen out of favor long ago, but Kid was always worth the try.

 _Please,_ he said, a whispering croak to the brilliant blue sky. He blinked, but it made his eyes sting. They stayed dry and scratchy. He listened and waited. _Please save him._

"D'you say something?" Pardue slurred. He swiped sweat from his eyes.

Heyes ignored him, searching the sky. Turkey vultures flew in slow circles high overhead. There'd been vultures before. He'd seen them waiting too many times.

He wished he could talk to Jed, try to get him not to give up on his amnesty.

Heyes left for a while, mind gone blank. He lost time, because when he came back Pardue stood above him, blocking out the hateful sun.

"Taking you inside." That was all he said.

Heyes attempted to grin, but his mouth hurt. His lips were cracked.

He really tried to walk, but Pardue hauled him inside the barn like a sack of potatoes. The man smelled like a distillery. Didn't even bother tying him back up, just left him close by the barn doors.

Heyes couldn't see anything after the brightness outside. The skin all over his front side throbbed like he'd been stung by a thousand bees. He was grateful for the mercy of the shadows, but it stank worse inside than anything he'd ever smelled.

After a minute he could see better. Curry's face was turned toward him, blank. His poker face.

Heyes knew it for what it was. Shock, trying to cover the bad reaction at the way Heyes must look. Heyes nodded at him, about all he felt capable of doing.

Curry nodded back, but then his head bowed. His shoulders hitched.

Heyes wanted nothing more than to let his head sink down onto the musty hay. But he held on, waiting.

Then Curry took a deep breath and looked at him again. He smiled.

If it was a little tremulous, well, it was to be expected, Heyes supposed. He nodded again, let Curry see that he hadn't given up. Then he lay back in the gray-colored hay and savored the shade of the smelly, dilapidated barn, trying to believe it himself.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

I didn't kill him. It's for you to do, right enough. He killed Danny." Pardue stood in front of Jeremiah. "Or so he says, anyway."

Jeremiah sat on one of the crates, pouring water from a canteen onto a cloth. He wiped his face with it. "Well, why would he say he did if he didn't? There's no sense to it."

Pardue looked at Curry and then back at Jeremiah, revulsion flashing over his features. "I figure you know."

Jeremiah stopped cleaning his face. The barn was hot and still, and the smell of vomit lingered in the air, adding to the stench. "Is that supposed to mean something?"

Pardue sank onto the crate opposite Jeremiah, waving a hand. "Naw, nothing." He yawned.

Curry pulled his legs up slow and casual, tenting them. While Jeremiah was busy puking, he'd stretched out as far as he was able, just getting the tip of his boot on the knife hilt. He'd dragged it closer. Now the knife was beneath his boot heel.

When he'd pulled his feet close as he could, he gave the knife a quick little kick with his heel. The knife slid to a stop by his hip. No one paid him any attention.

"Can we get this over with soon, Jeremiah? This place stinks."

Jeremiah poured more water onto the cloth and wrung it out. He chuckled.

"What's so blasted funny?" Pardue's head swayed. His eyes were bleary.

"Joshua will tell you. Won't you, Joshua?" Jeremiah wiped his face again.

"Ah, I don't want to get anybody mad." He didn't like being the focus of anyone's attention—the knife was visible in the hay. Curry twisted his wrists against the ropes behind his back. He reached his fingers forward as far as he could, but he couldn't reach the knife.

"He stinks like a goat stewed in shit soup, is that about right?" Jeremiah cocked a thumb at Pardue.

Pardue's red shirt was dark with sweat. He blinked at Jeremiah.

"Well now, you're the one says that, not me." The shredded edges of Curry's shirt were stiff with dark, dried blood. They pricked at his wounds. His arm and chest had heat in them now, swollen and sensitive. The pain grew, throbbing as he worked his muscles, reaching for the knife.

"You think you're so damn funny." Pardue put his head down on his arm. He closed his eyes. "We're getting out of here, Jeremiah," he mumbled. His head lolled to one side.

Jeremiah stood, had to tip forward and touch the bench for balance when he staggered. He almost tipped over anyway. "Guess he's right. Though now he's sleeping, it'll be hell to get him up again. Watch this." He walked around the table and kicked Pardue's leg.

A snore erupted from Pardue's slack mouth. One arm hung to the ground and one of his legs had slipped off the too-small crate, but somehow he held his position.

"Biggest drunk in the county," Jeremiah said. His black outfit, once sharp, was sadly creased, sweat-stained and wrinkled. His youthful face looked greasy. "Or any county, maybe. He'll be meaner than a hungry bear when he wakes up, sure as shootin'." He walked over to Heyes, close to the barn doors and lying curled on his side.

Curry's pulse jumped, settled into a gallop. It'd been at a frantic speed ever since Pardue strode out of barn intending to kill Heyes. He wrenched savagely at the ropes tying him, felt the burn of the coarse, tough fibers rub into his skin.

Jeremiah looked down at Heyes. "You're half-dead anyway, ain't you," he said. He kicked him in the back, but not roughly.

Heyes' brow creased. He closed his eyes, seemingly against the sight of Jeremiah above him.

Jeremiah rocked back on his heels, pleased. He lost his balance, but luckily the barn wall was behind him. Righting himself, he cast a furtive glance at Pardue who slept undisturbed, mouth hanging open.

Jeremiah stuck his boot over Heyes' side and into the curve Heyes' body made. "How badly are you doing, Joshua?"

"Just look at him, Jeremiah. He can't hurt anyone. Just let him go." Curry tugged at the ropes binding him. He kept rotating his wrists. Sweat or blood had begun to slick them. He couldn't tell which—his hands hurt in a weirdly numb way, prickled by the rough strands and his constant tugging.

The sun coming in through the roof holes had a yellowish quality, the dust motes showing thick in the rays of light. The day was growing late.

"So you two are good friends." Jeremiah hooked his thumbs over his belt. "If what I think I heard on the trail is right, you're really, really close." He grinned wide. "Did Danny know?"

"Know what?" Heyes croaked. His skin nearly glowed in the barn, red and painful-looking.

"Of your, uh—" Jeremiah wiped a hand over his face. "shall we say—unnatural practices."

"Unnatural practices? What's that?" Curry played dumb.

Jeremiah grinned wider. "You know what I mean. Doesn't he, Jones?"

"You some kind of pervert?" Curry tried to keep the man's attention off Heyes.

Jeremiah squinted at Curry, eyes gone small and mean. "I know your kind. Seen 'em at roundup. Cow punchers touching each other when no one else is around. Bunkies." Jeremiah glanced at Pardue again. He hadn't moved. "I bet you two get up to all kinds of no good things, don't you? When no one else is around? Touching and rubbing—" he drawled. His hand fell to the front of his pants.

Curry watched, horrified.

"Unnatural. Like you said." Heyes' whisper was as dry and harsh as the caw of a crow.

Jeremiah gave himself a slow stroke downward. "What do you two do together? At midnight, when all the other cowpokes are tuckered out, dead to the world? Tell me."

"Nothing," Curry said. "We sleep. Why don't you sleep, Jeremiah? You have to be tired after all this." He moved his feet, checked that the bindings were loose enough that he could pull them off when his hands were freed.

"Ever heard of frenching? The whores in some of the nastier cat houses do it. Put their mouths on a man. Wet the wick. Is that what you two do when no one else is around?" Jeremiah's hand was in his pants now.

Curry was sick. His fingers splayed out. Near, so near to the knife. "Maybe we should just wake up your friend now."

"Do it and you'll be sorry." Jeremiah stooped to Heyes on the ground in front of him. He reached out and smoothed back Heyes' hair with clumsy fingers. "You know what frenching is, don't you? I know you do." His hand ran down Heyes' arm.

Heyes' winced at the contact. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Maybe I could let you go. Maybe I will, if you do that. Show me how you do it." Jeremiah's blue eyes were bright, excited. His chest shuddered in and out, quick breaths.

"Get your hands off him, Bilson."

"Are you his property? Is that why he's yelling?" Jeremiah straightened, looked Curry in the eye. "You wake Harry up and I'll kill your friend right now."

"Too dry," Heyes rasped, looking at the ground and nothing else. "Can't do anything."

Curry didn't blink. "He needs water. Please. Give him water. I'm begging you." He got a finger on the knife, scratched at it. It moved closer, thank God. His hand was slippery. Had to be careful.

"And you'll do it."

Heyes nodded, sunburned shoulders curved in defeat.

Jeremiah laughed. "For a drink of water. Who'd have thought that's all it'd take?" He walked across to his saddlebags, fumbled inside and pulled out a canteen. He was back before Heyes in seconds. "Turn your head up, now."

Heyes tipped his head back. His dark hair fell away from his face. His mouth opened.

"Well, I like that now." Jeremiah grinned. "Here you go."

Heyes surged up on his knees, covered Jeremiah's hands with his own and tilted the canteen higher, frantically swallowing the water. He choked, couldn't maintain his balance.

Jeremiah balled a fist in his hair, holding him upright. "Now," he said, full-throated. He threw the canteen across the barn. Heyes' hands reached after it, clawing the air. Then they fell to his side.

Anger and fear jolted Curry, flooding through his body, over his face. He flushed all over, burning up inside his clothes. He sawed frantically at his bindings.

Heyes sank down on his haunches, head hanging. Dark hair fell forward, covering his eyes.

At first Curry wasn't sure what he was hearing. It sounded like corn husks rattling on the wind. Then he realized.

Heyes was laughing. Hysterical, despairing, but still—laughter.

"I can't do it, Kid." Heyes looked at him and shook his head. "I just don't think I can."

"Hold on," Curry said to Heyes, then sharply to Jeremiah, "Just hold on a minute."

Jeremiah's hand fell, a split-second away from making the discovery that he no longer carried his knife, and then remembering where he left it. "Kid? Kid who?"

"Jeremiah. I'll take care of this, don't worry. He'll do what I ask."

Jeremiah blinked at Curry. He began to grin.

"You can do it." Curry looked at Heyes urgently. "Smith. Just for a minute, okay? I promise it won't take long. Ain't that right, Jeremiah?"

Jeremiah's grin grew enormously. "Sure. Just a minute or two."

Heyes nodded.

Jeremiah pulled his cock completely out of his pants, turning his grin on Heyes.

Curry's hands were free, ropes spilled to the ground. He grabbed the ropes at his feet and pulled them off, pushed to his knees beside Pardue silently. He'd been sitting too long and his bones didn't want to cooperate, but he made himself, fast and smooth.

He slid the knife in between Pardue's ribs and twisted. Pardue's eyes flew open, widening. He gasped and didn't exhale, eyes still open. Curry reached for Pardue's gun, pulled it out of its holster.

Jeremiah turned his head toward Curry and Pardue.

Curry stood and took aim. The bullet exploded out of the gun, echoing in the old barn.

Jeremiah stared at him, uncomprehending. Blood spread over his shirt.

Heyes looked up at him from down on his knees.

" _I'm_ Thaddeus Jones. Maybe you'll believe it in hell." Curry pulled the trigger again.

Jeremiah crumpled, still staring, privates swinging free.

"Thank you," Heyes said to Curry, voice faint. He slid on his back into the blood-spattered hay.

Curry sagged a moment, panting, one hand on his knees, the other still wrapped around the gun. He straightened and walked to where Jeremiah had thrown his canteen, allowed himself a sip and then walked through the shadows and flashes of light beaming to the floor, collapsing next to Heyes. He rolled over, offering up the canteen. "Water, Heyes."

Heyes took to it, baby to a bottle. He tried to wrest it from Curry.

"Easy now. Don't make yourself sick."

Heyes drank a little more, panted some, drank some more. At one point he rested, clasping Curry's hand loosely in his own.

Curry closed his eyes. He didn't touch Heyes other than squeezing his hand in return. He wanted to, but was afraid of hurting Heyes' burnt skin.

The canteen was empty. Heyes smiled at him with cracked lips.

Curry swallowed, did his best to smile back. He watched Heyes' eyelids flutter, tremble and flutter again, lines of red like a bloody map of suffering traced all through the swollen skin.

Heyes slept and Curry followed, heedless of the unholy stench and dead bodies. They slept until the sun rose the next morning.

 

  


 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Kid and Heyes limped from the barn, breathing in fresh air as the sun first peeked over the eastern hills. They wanted and needed to get away as fast as possible, but neither of them was in shape to move. Curry's side and arm had stiffened up overnight and hurt like blue blazes, Heyes' could tell.

Neither of them complained. There was no use in it. They filled their canteens and mounted their horses. Leading the other two horses, they rode off at a walk.

The trail that curved out back from the barn merged with a wider trail. Two hours later they reached the edges of a settlement and left the extra horses there munching on grass.

The sun sizzled terribly against Heyes' skin. He hated the ball of blazing heat rising overhead and even, by association, the wide, brilliant sky. His fingers shook on the reins. He was feverish, dull-eyed and weak as water. Every passing second of exposure to the sun made him feel worse.

Still, he protested when Curry climbed off his horse, even swatted at him when Curry tried to help him dismount. "We can't stay here. We haven't gone far enough, Kid."

"Well, you can't ride any more. We need to find you a doctor."

"Where's a doctor?" Heyes affected looking all around, then down at Curry. "There's no doctor, far as I see. Nobody lives out here besides the trees and rocks. Now come on, Kid. We need to put some distance between us and that barn."

Curry looked up at him, squinting against the strong light. "Uh-uh. We'll find some shelter and hunker down, camp out."

"And again I ask, where?"

"Heyes," Curry said, patient. "I'll ride off the trail aways, find some shade. We filled up our canteens. We have jerky in the saddlebags. Be right back."

Curry found an outcrop of rocks nearby. He cleared the ground and broke branches from a bush, fashioning a crude roof to keep Heyes in the shade. He went back to fetch Heyes, motioned for him to follow. Curry dismounted and set his horse to grazing.

Heyes sat on his horse in front of the rocks. "We stink," he said.

Curry laughed up at him. "I know. Look on the good side, who'd follow us when we smell so bad? I wouldn't. The bath will keep one more day. Now get down."

"I'll probably asphyxiate in the middle of the night from it. You too," Heyes grumbled.

Curry shook his head. "You with your important-sounding words. I always know you're gonna make it when you caterwaul like this."

Heyes frowned at him. "I'm just stating facts."

"Caterwaul, state facts—they both sound the same coming out of your mouth," Curry muttered. "Now get off the horse, Heyes."

Heyes' fever rose during the night. He dreamed of being burned alive. He tossed and turned against the hard rock. There was no escaping the pain. Curry squandered some of their water to try and cool him down.

Heyes made him stop. The relief lasted just seconds, and they needed the water.

He was pretty sure the Kid was feverish, too. He made the Kid show him his wounds as soon as there was a bit of light to see by. Curry had a fit of temper, but he finally showed Heyes, he said, to "shut him up."

"Whatever works," Heyes replied. He knew he sounded a little smug, but at least it got the Kid to clean the places on his arm and side again, even if all they had was water.

Curry rode out to the next town as soon as it was full light. He was back that afternoon, tired, sweaty and unable to hide the twinges of pain from moving around. Heyes noticed he'd changed clothes.

The Kid informed him that nobody at the local saloon there had mentioned gossip about a barn, or dead bodies in a barn. Curry had gotten them a room at the hotel. He'd cleaned up a little, and cleaned and bandaged his wound. He'd even found a doctor.

Heyes agreed it was worth the risk to go back. He got up, creaking around like an old man, and managed to get on his horse again, following Curry back to the little town.

The first thing he did in the hotel room was to inspect Curry's wounds, clean and help bandage them again. Reluctantly he agreed that Curry's arm and side looked a little better, less reddened and swollen, and that it might arouse unnecessary interest if the town doc knew one of them had bullet wounds.

The second thing he did was order a cold bath. It was a blessed if shivering kind of heaven.

Curry urged him out of the tub eventually, helping him dry off. Heyes glared at him, but it really was painful to twist this way and that to get dry.

They went to see Doc Wolversham, a perpetually stooped man with slicked back gray hair. Heyes spun a story about his horse sickening and dying on him out in the desert.

The doc gave Heyes and Curry poultices made from the boiled stems of witch hazel, advising them that poultices made from ordinary wet clay might work even better. He told Heyes to eat salty foods and drink as much water as he could hold.

After sundown the burn hurt worse, Heyes had noticed. Just like he noticed how people had stared at his red, raw skin in the dining room that evening. He didn't care, he just didn't want their attention. He wanted his bed.

Upstairs, he threw up dinner. Afterward he lay on the bed, trying to appreciate the soft mattress beneath him. At least his backside didn't burn and sting.

Curry placed poultices on his front side. It felt like he was being fussed over. Foolishness. Only a blasted sunburn. Heyes shifted restlessly.

"Quit shifting around." Curry sat back. "They'll come off before they have time to work."

"Stop staring at me," Heyes mumbled. He felt a little humiliated. He wasn't a child after all, even if he did still feel peculiarly adrift and dull.

"Just mooning at you." Jed smiled at him, slow and sweet.

It did something to Heyes' insides, made him abashed and grateful, embarrassed and glad to be alive.

 


	8. Chapter 8

They meandered into Wyoming territory, going nowhere fast. They had nowhere to be and a little stash of money. Not much but enough.

The skies there seemed a darker shade of blue, puffy white clouds in high contrast. The change seemed to soothe Heyes. Curry thought it might be a while before that ruthlessly brilliant shade of Colorado sky no longer made Heyes uneasy.

They rode hills of brown and green, past big rocks and evergreen trees and yellow wildflowers. They crossed slow-running creeks. Whatever town they happened upon, they'd stop at the first saloon they spotted and wash down the dust from the trail. Sometimes they got in on a game of poker. They won money, drank whiskey and smoked cigars.

And for a miracle, trouble stayed away.

Both of them healed, though Heyes' recovery was slow. His thinking cleared, his energy rebounded. He still liked taking naps, but they were no longer required.

His skin got thick and dry. At night in their room, Curry tapped it with his fingers, bemused at the sound it made. Like tapping on something solid, not skin. He'd do it sometimes to the point Heyes got irritated.

About ten days after they'd escaped the barn, Heyes' skin began peeling in great swatches. Curry was fascinated. The layers went deep, unlike the usual burn and peel of too much sun. It drove Heyes crazy. He put linseed oil on his skin, recommended by a chatty woman married to a doctor and staying at one of the hotels they passed through. It only made the skin peel off in huge pieces.

Six days later, Curry's wounds were reddened puckers on the skin and Heyes was mostly done shedding. That night they won more than they should at poker and silently agreed that they'd move on.

The sky opened up as they left town the next morning, the rutted roads turning to mud. Curry didn't mind. The rain felt good. Heyes grinned at him and kicked his horse, taking off fast. Curry followed at a more leisurely pace.

He spotted Heyes up ahead, sitting still in the rain and staring at a dilapidated barn off the road.

"Heyes, you all right?" Curry reined in his horse.

Heyes turned as he approached. "You ever think about them?"

"Sure," Curry said, understanding immediately whom he referred to. He shrugged. "But not much."

"The only person you ever killed was Danny before those two came along." Heyes watched Curry closely.

"You're worried about me feeling bad about it?" Curry felt his face stiffen, saw the wariness creep over Hannibal's face in response. "Don't. Some people need killing, Heyes. Never lost any sleep over them." He hesitated. "Not like I'm planning on killing anyone else, though."

Heyes smiled at him, rain clumping his eyelashes, making his hat and clothes sodden. "I'm glad for that. But mostly just worried it might be bothering you."

"In a general sort of way it does. But mostly not," Curry said. "Can we go on now?"

Heyes nodded. Their horses plodded off in the rain, steam rising from their bodies.

*

Curry's britches were binding him too tight. Or maybe he hadn't had sex in too long. Or maybe it was just the sight of Heyes, dark sleepy eyes first thing in the morning, long body popping out of the bed to go do his business. Or Heyes at night, reclined in bed and reading, or shedding his clothes and getting ready to sleep. Or just Heyes.

He missed sleeping with him. He watched Heyes running around half naked in the room and his body ached for it. The trouble was, he didn't know how to approach him.

At first there'd been no question of them sleeping in the same bed with Heyes' skin all burnt up, red and feverish. He'd been so sick—hell, he'd nearly died. The thought terrified Kid more than Jeremiah and Pardue had ever managed to scare him.

Heyes stayed quieter than normal as he healed. The time between them sleeping together grew longer. Curry didn't know if Heyes still wanted that. Them.

Then, about a hundred miles into Wyoming territory, Heyes answered that question. Or Curry hoped that's what it meant when Heyes checked them into a room with one bed. It's what they used to do all the time, though, so he wasn't sure.

After a good dinner, they retired to the local saloon to play cards. Curry didn't think gambling would ever get old, but he had trouble concentrating. Or maybe it was the way Heyes looked at him all night, heat in his eyes. Curry was painfully stiff in his trousers. He tried his best not to think on it for fear of the state of his drawers.

Not long after dark, Heyes rose from the table and excused himself. He wore a black shirt, fitting his elegant body to a T. He bowed a little at the saloon girl who'd been making eyes at him, straightened and gave Curry a look. He raised a slow hand, running it through his hair.

Curry couldn't put a finger on why, but the gesture was incredibly arousing. His gaze crawled over Heyes' body, right there in the open. He couldn't help it. He felt his face color up and saw Heyes take note of it by the twinkle in his eye. Then Heyes strode out of the room.

After ten minutes or so went by, Curry oh-so-casually folded his hand and followed, climbing the stairs.

He opened the door to their room. It was dark, the way it had to be for them to be together. He wished they were out in the hills away from everyone, wished he could see Heyes naked and unashamed underneath a great big wash of star-filled sky.

But at least Heyes _was_ naked beneath the sheets. Curry knew because Heyes threw them back. The windows might have curtains but the outside lanterns still got enough light through to show him Heyes' golden, naked body, his narrow hips and engorged cock standing over his flat belly.

Curry stared at him and couldn't breathe. He had to press a hand to his dick throbbing inside his clothes.

Heyes grinned, those ridiculous, blindingly handsome dimples flashing in the low light. "You better not lose that before you get over here, Kid." He pointed at Curry's hard-on.

"Don't worry," Kid said, struggling to get his clothes off. "If I do I'll have another ready in five. Ten minutes at most."

Heyes' brows lifted. "You sure do think highly of yourself."

Curry threw the rest of his clothes off and jumped on to the bed. "Not me. You." He snagged fingers into Heyes' hair and tugged a little, pulling Heyes' chin up. Yielding to impulse, he dropped a kiss there. "I missed you."

Heyes' smile faltered, his eyes widening. He lowered his chin and grabbed the back of Curry's head, pulling him close. His lips covered Curry's, crushing them together.

Curry's dick and his brain and something else in his chest, all of it, all of him, _hungered._ "Too damn long, Heyes," he panted between kisses. He grabbed Heyes shoulders and settled himself inside the V of spread thighs, rutting their cocks together.

"Won't let it go again so long, Kid," Heyes promised breathlessly against Curry's lips. Heyes' cock pulsed against his, a slow, drawing spasm. "Not going to last long," Heyes confessed. He wedged his hand in between them, palming Curry's cock.

Curry couldn't speak for a moment. He tucked his head into the curve of Heyes' shoulder and bit him, almost beside himself. When Heyes shoulder stiffened, Curry pulled back a little. "I shouldn't—should I—" Curry started, couldn't find the words.

"What?" Heyes whispered.

"Didn't—didn't mean to be rough." Curry mortified himself by stuttering.

Heyes' dark eyes took on a sly gleam. He'd given Curry that same sly, still, challenging look in the past with a lit match in hand, asking with a voice smooth as silk if Curry was sure he wanted to blow up the vault. Curry always thought Heyes was never more alive than when he was blowing a safe wide open.

Until now.

"So you're going to treat me like a nice, sweet, soft woman now?" Heyes shifted, dragging his cock against Curry's. His fingers wrapped around Curry's dick, rough and tugging.

"Not treating you like a lady, Heyes," Curry said, gasping, groping for words. All the blood seemed to flow away from his brain. "Treating you like I haven't had sex in weeks."

"Well, I guess there's that." Heyes laughed up at him.

Curry wrapped both arms beneath Heyes and pulled him close, fingers sliding over his back, seeking out the smoothness of his skin, the rise of shoulder blade and dip of spine, the small indentations just above his bottom.

Heyes groaned quietly in Curry's ear, body arching and turning beneath his touch.

The feel of so much skin after being deprived overwhelmed Curry. He rubbed against Heyes' thick cock and stifled a guttural shout in his shoulder. His heart pounded in his chest until he froze against Heyes, shooting off in endless pulses of pleasure.

When he was able to move, he buried Heyes' mouth beneath his own again. He hooked one hand in Heyes' hair, the other reaching to stroke him into slippery, glorious orgasm.

Or so he assumed, if Heyes' expression was anything to judge by.

Curry didn't want to climb off him, but in the end he had to—Heyes complained about how heavy he was. Curry rolled off beside him, lying hip to hip. He put his arm behind his head and listened to the sounds in the street below.

"You asleep?" he asked after a while.

Heyes made a snuffling sound that said he most definitely was. "No."

"Don't you ever get sunburned again. You hear me?"

Heyes yawned. "I won't. And Kid?"

"Yeah?" Kid reached out, idly rubbing Heyes' hip.

"I always knew you'd get us out of there."

"You were sure on that, were you?"

"Always am." Heyes covered the hand on his hip with his own. "Next time I'll save us. With brains, not brawn."

"It's what you do," Curry agreed, turned over and pulled Heyes close.

-end-


End file.
